Forget Me Not
by Bluebell the Troll
Summary: What happened to the Seven Dwarves when Snow White left them? What if the story was wrong? What if there weren't seven...only one? R&R please. This isn't my best writing, but I wanted to submit something.


They say there were seven, but there was only ever me. Of course, they say a lot of things. I believe that, according to the circulating tales, I am only three feet tall.

But I suppose they got the ending right, even if they don't tell my part of it. Oh, yes, they got the ending right. So quick it seemed, never a chance for a fare-thee-well, or a thank you, perhaps. Not for her, no. Just a quick kiss and a carry-me-off, carry me away from my coffin, washed with tears.

Not that I'm bitter.

But she hardly knew him.

She knew me.

They say she lives happily, and I hope it's so. I suppose it's good that they never tell my ending, for the words 'happily ever after' are not to be found. I suppose it's just as well. Who wants to hear a tale of disappointed love? Especially when they could hear of a valiant prince who comes to free a maiden from enchanted sleep, awakens her, whisks her away to his palace.

Why tell of the disappointed lover? Of the man left behind, with an empty coffin, an empty heart, and a crushed flower? Frankly, mine is a pathetic tale, while theirs romantic and wonderful.

Except to me.

Disappointed love. Oh yes, I loved her! So surprised? How could any man not, having known her? Oh, yes, it was love at first sight, but it was nothing to do with her beauty. It was in the way she walked. For me, my world shrunk down to that face. For her, I suppose, nothing changed. Because for her, it was not love, but friendship.

In two years, she gave me a lifetime of memories. She had more life in her sleep then most have when they're awake.

Perhaps, in her heart, she knew she would leave me.

When I thought she had, it was as if it had killed me too. How could a bit of apple, such a small, foolish thing, put an end to such a life?

I found her there, cold, the fruit fallen from her curling fingers. I suppose, at first, I couldn't believe it. One day she was laughing, skipping beside me, the next there was a cold, fair-skinned beauty, lying dead on the floor.

Oh, there was more pain in that second then in a thousand years of hell. One second of reaching out my hand to touch her chilled face.

I did not bury her. It was a near thing, but I couldn't bear to close her underground. She should have lived forever, I thought, among the trees and flowers she had loved. If she could no longer be with them in life, surely in death she should remain in their sight.

So, with love and sorrow, both beyond endurance, I crafted her a coffin from glass, and cried enough tears to drown in.

I laid her in a clearing, a still, beautiful place, with roses and little wildflowers carpeting the ground. She would have liked it, I thought, but when she did, she could hardly spare a glance for it.

And I stayed there, stretched our among the leaves, to keep her company that first night.

And in the morning, _he_ came.

In the first light of the sun, his armor shone. He looked our of place among the oaks, and his well-bred horse trampled the roses.

He saw me. Our eyes met, and perfect understanding passed between us. I hated him. He saw it, and did not care. And I hated him all the more for not caring.

"Dwarf. What—"

That was as far as he got before he saw her.

I am not a dwarf. I suppose that to someone on a horse, anyone kneeling in a bed of leaves must look very short. But the story says that there were seven of me. Why could it not be seven dwarves, then?

"Who is she?" He spoke in a whisper, so quiet, like a breath of wind. He did not look at me as he swung from the saddle and knelt by her coffin, and nor did her wait for my answer. I was invisible. Invisible, and with a frozen heart.

He pushed aside the heavy lid, washed clear with my torrent of tears. He touched her hair, the desecrater of the dead, while his horse snorted and stood on a flower. A little blue thing, but I could not remember the name.

He took her shoulders, and I wished him dead for touching her so tenderly, not seeming to see that she was gone. He held her to him, and he touched his lips to hers.

Fool. Did he imagine I had not done the same a thousand times, kissed those lips, desperate for a sign of life, begging her to come back to me?

And what right did he have to touch? To kiss?

And then.

Oh, then!

A flickering eyelid, startling blue eyes, a tiny gasp.

My frozen heart leapt and melted so fast that it hurt. I gazed at her. Alive! My heart sang with the word. Miraculously, impossibly, incredibly, wonderfully alive.

And my melted heart shattered. Shattered and froze again, as I watched, kneeling among the leaves as he swept her off her feet. Off her feet and away, leaving an empty coffin and a crushed flower.

Gone. Never a thank you, never a farewell. Not even a glance. I would have given a year of my life for one glance from her. But nothing.

He, the golden thief, in his armor, the grave robber, took her away from me, and broke my heart, even as he made it leap with joy.

And, in the moments afterward, as I stared after her, vanishing into the horizon, I remembered the name of the flower.

Forget-me-not.

Ironic.


End file.
